


if your heart could find the words

by bookhobbit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Slow Burn, ish? is 9k enough for slow burn, more kissing than i have ever previously written, there's A LOT OF KISSING in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhobbit/pseuds/bookhobbit
Summary: For the following kink meme prompt:Childermass has discovered a spell to bring back *one* of the missing magicians but it requires a trade - if Jonathan Strange returns, then Childermass has to go into the darkness.





	if your heart could find the words

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back at their old nonsense with an unreasonable amount of oneshot.

Yorkshire in the autumn was as fine as any place on earth, according to Childermass's way of thinking. The very last of the heather's blooms and the slow turn of the tree's leaves and the crispness in the air made for a very fine afternoon of riding, and Childermass was often riding. These days, though, he was spending more and more of the time between his rides at Starecross Hall, with Mr Segundus.

He was sufficiently familiar with that gentleman's habits, therefore, to know that when he called a meeting of his friends, it was liable to be important. Setting aside the journey he had planned, to take Vinculus to Chesire on a tour of the magicians there, he parked himself at Starecross to stay for a few days. Mr Segundus kept a room open for him always, a courtesy that Childermass did not understand, but appreciated.

Mr Segundus had a wide circle of friends, for he was an amiable man, but only two were called for this particular meeting. Accordingly, Mr Segundus wrote a letter to Mrs Strange, asking if she might come to Starecross. It was not so very long a journey; she lived in a cottage with Lady Pole only a few miles away. The two of them came riding on a fine September morning, bringing with them an equally-fine basket of cakes Mrs Strange had baked.

Mr Segundus received them, and ushered them into the parlor, and did all of the things that a host ought to do. Technically, Lady Pole had not been invited, but it was understood that where Mrs Strange went she went also, and besides, she was always welcome at Starecross.

There was, of course, an obligatory half-hour of inanity. Childermass's own impatience with this he concealed, for he knew the formula just as well as any of the rest of them. But a long life lived with Mr Norrell, who seldom saw the point of social calls, had merely honed his own his own natural poor tolerance for such things.

Finally, after greetings and talk of village children and discussion of the pupils at Starecross had been completed, Mr Segundus stood up. This was his habit when he was announcing something important; the point of their meeting was clearly soon to come.

Childermass sat back and watched. He could see Mr Segundus trembling and, therefore, this must be news of some magnitude. Though nervous, Mr Segundus was ordinarily in complete control of himself.

Mr Segundus stood, clutching a sheet of paper in hand, the edges so tight as to wrinkle. He cleared his throat, and said in an uncomfortable little voice, "If you will excuse me for coming straight to the point, I believe I have found a method of bringing back Mr Strange."

Mrs Strange gasped. Lady Pole, beside her, tightened one hand on hers.

"It is a technique for rescuing those caught in unbreakable traps," said Segundus. "I believe it will be effective."

"Yet you have not done it," said Childermass, "So I presume there must be some difficult part."

Mr Segundus gave him a weak, nervous smile and nodded. "You are quite right, Mr Childermass. The problem is that I can only remove one person. And that there must be a sacrifice sent in return."

They absorbed this in silence.

"A sacrifice?" said Arabella. "You mean another person?"

"I mean, specifically, another magician."

"Ah," said Arabella solemnly. "I do see the difficulty. We cannot condemn just any person to a life spent in Darkness and--" Here she paused. "And with Mr Norrell. If I cannot go, then I do not see that there is anything to be done."

"Madam, I volunteer my services," said Segundus with a clumsy bow. "I know that I am only a middling magician at best, yet I believe that would be sufficient to fulfill the terms of the spell."

"Oh, Mr Segundus," said Arabella, patting his hands. "The offer is very gracious, but you have your school to consider."

"But your happiness, madam," protested Mr Segundus.

"Mine is not worth the sacrifice of yours, sir, nor the cessation of the work that you are doing here, in this world." She smiled wanly at him. "I will be fine, sir. Thank you for telling me, but I fear Jonathan must stay where he is."

"Oh!" said Mr Segundus, "But I had called Childermass here in the hopes that he might find another way. He is a cleverer magician than I."

"You underrate yourself, sir, but there is no need for that," said Childermass, standing. "No need to worry yourself about a sacrifice, madam, for I shall go in Mr Strange's place."

The protests were immediate and from all corners, save Lady Pole's. Mr Segundus said that he must remember his research; Mrs Strange said that he must remember his health. He overrode them all.

"For," he said, "I am the only person in England who knows well enough how to manage Mr Norrell. Have I not a complete cast of Vinculus's marks that I might take with me? Have I not fewer connections and relations in this world than any of you? No, I think it best this way. Mr Strange can resume his family duties, and Mr Norrell and I can explore Faerie. We are a pair of old bachelors, and there are few to mourn us."

 

The news caused an upset in Childermass's plans, though it did not sway him. He had been going to take Vinculus to Cheshire after this meeting had concluded, but now, he thought, it would be better to get his affairs in order.

"You will not be free of magicians, I fear," he told Vinculus. "Mr Segundus has very generously offered to let you stay here."

"Ah!" said Vinculus, who had often been in the habit of wheedling an extra bottle of wine or two from the cook.

"You're not to cause trouble, or incite the students to riot, or steal anything," said Childermass.

"And who's to stop me, with you gone?"

"Mr Segundus may be an amiable man, but I suspect that if you tried him, you would find more to reckon with than you expect," warned Childermass. "For your own health, do not attempt it."

"Ha," said Vinculus, and scratched his head. "What is it you're going to do, then? Go off to seek your fortune? I would think you had already found it, miserly bastard though you are."

"As a matter of fact, I am going to Faerie."

"Oh!" said Vinculus, tapping the side of his nose. "Going to rejoin your master."

"He's not my master anymore."

"Oh, no? Then what are you joining him for?"

Childermass gave him an irritated look. "Mrs Strange quite naturally wishes to have her husband back."

Vinculus cackled. "And you want yours, eh?"

 

Childermass's affairs in England were few, but not so few as they had been. Certainly he had always kept an eye on matters around England, but those had only occasionally been for his own independent purposes and, in any case, they were not business concerns. Childermass's chief interest was in gathering information and not in dabbling in business or politics.

But that had changed in the two years since the magicians' disappearance. Whether he had intended to or not, he had found himself at the head of a new movement to egalitarianise English magic. He had brought Vinculus to grand halls and small villages with one or two magicians in them alike, and he had worked to help ensure magical legislature would not exclude the poor, the women, or the downtrodden in general from education or practice. He had, in fact, become particularly adept at delivering speeches.

Mr Norrell, he mused, would have hated it. Well, he was no longer a servant, and his activities were his own.

It was on this theme that Mr Segundus chose to play when he, inevitably, came to convince Childermass that he was making a mistake.

"You don't owe him anything," he said, plucking at the fabric of the chair he sat in. "You do not belong to him any longer."

Childermass raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I'd say I ever _belonged_ to him."

Mr Segundus flushed. "I spoke badly. But, after all, did he not cause you do things contrary to your will?"

"I never do anything contrary to my will," said Childermass--without perfect accuracy, but near enough.

"But what about your projects here? Your movement will not flourish without you."

"Ah, but there are others. Movements should never be reliant on one man." He smiled. "That is where my former master went wrong. And I have faith in your ability to continue along the path we have begun."

"I simply think it is a waste."

"Do you not wish to have Mr Strange back? I know you had high regard for him."

"I have high regard for you," said Mr Segundus.

Childermass blinked. "Well, as to that, I am sure that I will find some way to communicate eventually. I shall have to discuss the King's letters with you somehow."

"But," said Mr Segundus, and subsided.

"But?"

"I will miss you."

Childermass laughed softly. "Only a few years ago I was the bane of your life."

"But you are not now." Mr Segundus frowned. "I would be very proud to think of you as a friend."

"And so we are," said Childermass, "But you will have other friends, and I will find some way to correspond with you."

Mr Segundus sighed. "There will always be a place for you at Starecross, you know. If you should change your mind, or find your way back."

And perhaps, thought Childermass, there was something to be regretful for after all. But it did not sway him.

 

They sent the final date for his transference to November. Childermass finished concluding his affairs in late October--for he always had been timely about his business--and stayed at Starecross the rest of the time.

It was pleasant to be in Yorkshire at the end of the autumn, even though he knew he likely would not see it again. The sharp knowledge of how far he would soon be made the season all the sweeter. Mr Segundus ensured he had every comfort--perhaps to tempt him to stay here, instead of heading off into the unknown. But it did not sway him.

On the day Childermass was set to depart, Mrs Strange came to see that her husband would have every thing he needed. She prepared the rooms they were to stay in, and the mirror through which both he and Childermass would travel. As she did so, she encountered Childermass, beginning the final preparations for the spell.

"I don't think I ever said a proper thank-you," she said, helping him clean the mirror.

Childermass shrugged. "I don't do things for the purpose of seeking gratitude."

"No, I know. Yet you deserve it anyway. Thank you." For a moment, her hand rested on his, and her eyes lingered on him. It was the closest he had ever been to her. She looked older than she had when last he had been near; there were tired lines around her eyes. He wondered how long she had lain awake at night, wondering whether this would work.

He inclined his head. "I appreciate it, but I have goals of my own."

Mrs Strange's face twisted up into a charmingly wry smile. "Of that I have no doubt. You always seem to."

Childermass raised an eyebrow and remained silent. He cast a spell of protection on the mirror - a quick affair, no more than a bolstering-up of the spells they had lain before.

"I do not understand it," she said, after he was finished.

"I am sorry?"

"How you can go back to him. After...after everything."

Childermass considered. "And how can you wish for your husband back, after everything?"

"Oh, but he is my husband! I love him, and besides..." She trailed off for a moment, trying to consider her words. "He rescued me, when I was under the earth, and I feel it is my duty to go to every effort to rescue him. Moreover, it is my habit."

Childermass smiled. "Perhaps it is my habit to rescue Mr Norrell."

"From my husband, do you mean? Well, I don't deny that Jonathan has his exasperating qualities, but I think they are quite well-suited for one another." Mrs Strange frowned. "Do you think we do them a disservice? I do miss him very dearly, but they are both magicians to the core. Perhaps they prefer it this way."

Childermass gave this some consideration. "If this is so," he said, "Then you can always allow Mr Strange to exchange himself for me. There is nothing stopping the spell from reversing. But I suspect that once he returns, he will remember what it is he missed."

Mrs Strange cocked her head at him, like a bird. "And suppose he decides to return because he feels responsible for you? Because he does not want to see you trapped?"

Childermass sighed, and closed his eyes. "Do not let him. Not unless he wants to return for his own sake."

She looked at him again, as if trying to discern his true motives. He wanted to say, _there are bonds other than marriage_ , or something equally foolish; instead, he said nothing.

"I do wish you well, Mr Childermass," she said.

"As I do you," he said, bowing.

And then there was only the casting of the spell.

Childermass stood in front of the mirror and touched it, calling up the King's Roads, calling up paths to Faerie. Mr Segundus read the words of exchange, of protection, of binding. With the last word, the spell took hold.

It was an odd sensation, as if the whole world was turning itself inside out, shaking itself, and turning itself back rightside in. He felt sick, and sank to the floor to keep himself from falling. There was a great wind and a sharp smell of snow, a sickly dizzy spinning that forced him onto his knees, and then, suddenly, he was inside Hurtfew Abbey.

He looked up. It was the dining-room, he realized, and Strange must have only just gotten up from his chair to proceed outward from dinner. Mr Norrell was there, standing himself with his chair half-drawn back, one arm extended as if caught in the act of reaching out for him.

Childermass lifted his head and nodded at Mr Norrell.

Mr Norrell stared in astonishment.

"Childermass?" he said.

Childermass rose slowly to his feet, groping for the chair to support himself. "Sir," he said.

Mr Norrell blinked at him. "Where is Mr Strange?"

"With any luck, in England," said Childermass. It did aggrevate him that he was unlikely to ever know if their efforts had been successful. But he put it from his mind, and regarded Mr Norrell.

He looked just the same, except that his clothes were a little untidy. He did not look any older, though perhaps it was not to be wondered at, since only two years had passed. His eyes were still small and sharply blue-grey, still hidden as if peering at from some place inside himself. His mouth was still thin and pinched. His hands were still small and yellow-white and nervous, rubbing together as he regarded Childermass, and his shoulders were still hunched.

Childermass discovered, without surprise but with dismay, that his feelings had not changed any more than Mr Norrell had.

"In England?" said Mr Norrell, hurrying forward to look at the place where Mr Strange had been. He did not give Childermass a second glance. "Why? How?"

"Through magic," said Childermass. He tried to ignore Mr Norrell's distracted air; it was hardly to be wondered at that a spell would catch his attention before Childermass managed to. "I was exchanged for him."

"Whatever for?"

"Mrs Strange wanted him back," said Childermass, with some irony.

"Ha!" exclaimed Mr Norrell. "I suppose she did not think of the work we were doing! We were mapping the whole of Fairie, updating Pale! It would have been a masterpiece, and I cannot do it alone!"

"Well sir, I am here now."

Mr Norrell blinked again. "Yes. You said you were exchanged for him?"

"Aye. The spell required that two things of equal value must be exchanged. One English magician in return for another."

Mr Norrell absorbed this, and then apparently chose to ignore it. "How do I know this is not some fairy-trick?"

Childermass was prepared for this. "Your middle name is Haythornthwaite, like your uncle. You've wanted to be a magician since you were twelve, and you've hated the Raven King since you were twenty-two. It was almost ten years after that I came to you. You were born in York in a small house with a grandfather clock that's still in Hurtfew today, and you were christened Ph--"

"Don't say it," said Mr Norrell, "I am satisfied. You did this voluntarily?"

"Mr Segundus wouldn't have kidnapped me and forced me into it, no."

Mr Norrell pursed his lips. "Why? I dismissed you. You are not my servant any longer."

Childermass, for once speechless, took a moment to suck in a breath. Just like him, wasn't it, to yoke himself to the biggest fool in all of Yorkshire. He said, "If that's the way you look at it, appen I should have left Strange here."

"Appen you should have," said Mr Norrell, straightening his spine and bristling like a hedgehog. "We were doing perfectly well, Childermass. We were--" He stopt. "We were friends again."

 _Ah_ , thought Childermass, reading between the lines. _You had hopes. You poor beggar._ "Well, whatever it is you wanted, you're not his wife. Mrs Strange wanted him home, I was willing to come. I'd wager he's happier back there than he would have been here."

"And what about me?" said Mr Norrell. "I'm to be left alone? With no fellow-magician to discuss things with?"

"You'll have me, sir," said Childermass.

There was a long silence. Mr Norrell did not look at him. He said, with a quiet kind of hurt, "But I had everything I wanted, and now I have lost him again."

Childermass closed his eyes for a moment. "Did you not miss me, sir?" he asked--entirely foolish, and entirely unguarded.

Mr Norrell looked up at him. "I suppose so," he said. "That is to say--you were the finest servant I ever had."

 _Well_ , thought Childermass, blinking against his own sharp disappointment. _That's what comes of you asking things_.

 

Childermass resolved immediately that just because he had returned to Mr Norrell did not mean he would return to being Mr Norrell's servant. He was done with fetching and carrying, and done with not being accorded the recognition he was due. He would not hide his magicianship, his opinions, or his sarcasm.

Not that he had ever held the latter two from Mr Norrell. But he supposed it might be quite a different matter to hear a servant discussing your failings in detail and hearing an equal doing so.

As he had thought, it was not a smooth transition at the beginning. Mr Norrell would ask him to fetch books; Childermass would say "why should I?" Mr Norrell would order him to light the fire; Childermass would tell him to light it himself.

As they settled in, though, they developed a routine of who would do what. Childermass learned that Strange had generally done messy tasks such as fireplace-cleaning and dish-washing, while Mr Norrell had managed to wrestle his childhood knowledge of cooking sufficiently to ensure that toasted cheese would not be burnt. Childermass supplemented this with his own vague knowledge of making stews on the road.

He moved back into his attic bedroom at first. Then Mr Norrell said, "Why do you still sleep up there? It must be an unnecessarily long walk to the kitchen and the library."

"I've slept there for more than a quarter of a century," Childermass said.

"But there's no need now. We have the whole house to ourselves -- and indeed three others."

So Childermass took a room down the hall from Mr Norrell's, since the labyrinth was formulated to lead from that hallway to essential rooms.

Silently and secretly, Childermass was dogged by the apprehension that Strange would call him back to Starecross and take his own place again. Mr Norrell was not the most genial of company, but Childermass well knew how he could dig himself down into your heart and lodge there. He knew far too well.

 

"Oh!" said Mr Norrell, turning sharply around to look behind him. Childermass looked up. They had been studying the King's Letters. He had brought the notebook with the transcription in the bag he had taken along into the Darkness, and the problem had intrigued Mr Norrell. They had been working on it for some three days, and had made no more progress than Childermass had on his own, but that was not to be wondered at.

Childermass raised his eyebrows. "Does something trouble you?"

"The houses," said Mr Norrell. "We only have two now. I felt them go." He rushed over to the window, and Childermass followed. Sure enough, the string of houses behind Hurtfew had shrunk, and now only the house on Hanover-square bobbed along in its stately fashion.

"Oh," said Mr Norrell again, as if his worst fears were confirmed. He blinked, and turned around. "Is this a side effect of the spell?" he asked.

"It could be," said Childermass. "It was not in any way written in, but it could be."

Mr Norrell hung into the ledge and looked out further, as if he hoped to see the other two houses rushing back up like lost ducklings. "Could he be trying to get back?"

Childermass took a breath against the jaggedness in his chest. "I don't think so, sir. All he would have to do is reverse the channel, and I would be gone."

Mr Norrell looked at him for a moment, as if imagining, or perhaps wishing, that Strange would appear in his place. "You did not tell me it was reversible, did you?"

Childermass had not, for fear of being looked at the very way Mr Norrell was looking at him now. It was unbearable to think of yourself as simply the detritus in the drain blocking the water flow. Unbearable to think that someone you had given half your life to would want you gone after you had finally found them again when you had thought them lost forever.

"He has not come," Mr Norrell said. "It has been two weeks."

Childermass nodded.

"Perhaps he still will," said Mr Norrell, but his voice did not hold much hope.

"Perhaps," said Childermass, thinking of their earlier _appen_ and how much less like home Mr Norrell sounded when he talked of Strange. He wanted to ask _would it be so bad if he did not?_ but he was afraid of the answer. By habit, he laid a hand on Mr Norrell's shoulder.

Mr Norrell looked round, as if he had quite forgotten the little gestures Childermass used to employ to calm him. He blinked, and his shoulders relaxed a little.

"He could still come," he told Childermass.

"He could," agreed Childermass. With difficulty, he stopped the thought of it breaking him in two.

 

The day that Childermass dreaded did not come.

What did come was something close to it--a feeling of brief disorientation and a sharp blast of cold air that only he seemed to feel. At his gasp, Mr Norrell looked up from the table where he was making notes.

"Childermass?"

Childermass blinked. He moved his arm, and realized there was something in his pocket that had not been there before. He reached, and found a piece of paper.

The outside was addressed in Mr Strange's elegant but rather haphazard hand: _To Mr Gilbert Norrell, esq. and John Childermass, Hurtfew Abbey, Faerie._

"Sir," said Childermass urgently. He hurried over to the table and sat down beside Mr Norrell, placing the letter in front of him.

Mr Norrell gave a gasp of his own. "What --"

"It appeared in my pocket, by what I can only assume were magical means."

Mr Norrell reached out and traced the letters. "It is his hand," he murmured.

Childermass, less burdened by sentiment, cast a spell of true-seeing to ensure that it was no Faerie trick. But no: this was Jonathan Strange's magic, with a fingerprint or two from John Segundus.

Mr Norrell and Childermass exchanged glances.

"You open it, sir," said Childermass. "Your name is first."

Mr Norrell nodded and slowly, carefully broke the wax seal. He unfolded the paper, and looked at it, and pushed it across the table.

"Read it to me, please," he said.

Childermass nodded and began to read.

 _My dear sirs_ , 

_Given the effort apparently expended to put me here, you will be glad to learn that I have arrived safely back in England. I am, for the moment, back at Ashfair, which I am sure you will note has accompanied me back to England._

_I find that England has changed since I left her; Childermass, no doubt, will have informed you of the situation--_ Childermass had not, having been too caught up in managing his current situation-- _but there is magic every where. Even more than when I left. It is, in my opinion, just as it should be, though no doubt you would disagree._

_I must thank you sincerely for returning me to my life and my country. I will strive day and night to find a way to return the favor. In fact, John Segundus has already proposed a solution or two based on what brought me here. For instance, enchanting logs to take the form of English magicians and sending them in your place._

"That would never work," said Mr Norrell, in a soft and absentminded voice, as if so in the habit of arguing with Strange that, even from afar, he could not stop.

 _Of course_   _I had to tell him that this would not likely work. All the same, I feel that he is thinking in the right direction, and between the two of us, we may be able to come to some kind of agreement._

_Sir, perhaps what I regret the most is that I did not have the chance to say farewell._

Childermass stopt, and looked up. What came next was personal for Strange and personal for Mr Norrell; he was dogged by the sense that he should not be the one to carry the message. But Mr Norrell silently waved for him to continue.

 _It is something of an understatement to say that we had our disagreements. Indeed, it sometimes seems that we had nothing_ but _disagreements. Nevertheless, despite our many, many differences, I shall miss your company. Who shall I have to contradict me? Who shall I have to talk about magic to? There is John, of course, but no one else has seen Faerie._

_I do not regret being here, but I find, to my surprise, that I regret leaving you behind. I trust that it will not be for too long._

_Until such a time as you return, I shall remain_

_Your affectionate friend,_

_Jonathan Strange_

Childermass came to a halt. The air in the room seemed filled with static, as if any moment a lightning strike or an immense spell would earth itself in the carpet. Mr Norrell's eyes were fixed on his shoes, and Childermass could see that they were not quite entirely dry.

Childermass had been prepared to be cynical about the letter; he had never fully trusted Jonathan Strange's motives any more than he had trusted Mr Norrell's perception, and he was sure that the Darkness must have been full of arguments and discord. But whether or not that was true, he felt that the letter was sincere. No matter how narrow its view.

And besides....

He looked again at Mr Norrell.

"We shall write a reply, sir," he said. "I am sure we can send it back along the same channel."

Mr Norrell stood and, without a word, shuffled out of the room.

 

Childermass saw to shelving the books that had been disturbed by their previous research. He felt that Mr Norrell would not be wanting them for a few days, while they concentrated on finding a way to send a reply to the letter. Besides, it was his long habit to fix things for Mr Norrell, and this was the only change he could effect.

He gave Mr Norrell time. No doubt he could have found him if he had gone hunting, but Childermass understood that grief had to have its day. He understood very well.

Eventually, around supper-time, when Childermass was toasting cheese over the kitchen fire and contemplating opening a bottle of wine to cheer him, Mr Norrell shuffled in.

Childermass turned to look at him.

"May I have some?" said Mr Norrell meekly.

They took supper together, without wine, and did not discuss the letter until they were clearing up the dishes afterwards.

In the silence broken only by clatters of glass and metal, Mr Norrell took a long, stuttering breath.

"He would never have been mine, would he?" he asked.

Childermass put a hand on his shoulder, and Mr Norrell did not move away.

 

They spent a few hours the next morning discussing ways to the letter to Strange.

"It is kind of you," said Mr Norrell, "To put aside your own projects and help me. It is not your sort of errand--nor indeed mine, under ordinary circumstances. I did not expect you to understand."

"But I do understand," said Childermass. "I always have."

"I don't see how you could. I have never seen you display this sort of weakness for any one," said Mr Norrell.

Childermass sighed; there was no room for prevarication now. "I could never have had you, either," he said.

Mr Norrell looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Oh," he said softly and wonderingly. His eyes flickered to Childermass's hand as if remembering where it had rested on his shoulder. Childermass winced, and stepped back

"Did you never..." Childermass began. Oh, god, he should not ask this question. He should not take this step. But he had waited for twenty-six years and they had a whole eternity in front of them. He could not spend it wondering. "Did you never feel anything for me, sir?"

"I could never have acted on anything," said Mr Norrell, which was not an answer. He cut his eyes away from Childermass and to the floor. "I do not say that I was not tempted. We were so close for such a very long time, you see, and I had no other companionship."

Childermass understood this to mean: _you were my only option, and a poor one at that._ But Mr Norrell continued, "It often seemed as though you were the only one who really understood me. But I was your master, and it would not have been wise. No, it would not have been wise at all."

"We are not master and servant any longer," said Childermass.

"No," said Mr Norrell. His eyes looked soft and sad. "We are not."

Childermass drew in a deep breath. He felt the he had found his answer, painful though it was, and he had never been one to shy away from the truth. "Pity, then, that it is too late."

If there was a flicker of surprize in Mr Norrell's face, Childermass did not know what it was for. Perhaps he had been expecting Childermass to press his suit, but they had an eternity, and they had best start as they meant to go on.

Mr Norrell said, without moving his eyes from Childermass's face, "It is a great pity indeed."

 

"Childermass, will you read this for me?" said Mr Norrell, pushing a piece of paper across to Childermass. "It is my letter to Mr Strange. I would like you to see that it is right."

Childermass accepted it. At least he had asked -- they were making progress on the issue of servanthood. He looked the letter over.

 _Mr Strange_ ,

_My relief that you are safe and sound is very great. I was concerned that you might not have ended up back in England, but Lord knows where, wandering the King's Roads, without me there to caution you._

_I, too, regret that we did not say farewell. But I will trust that I will see you again some day, for Childermass and I are striving to find our own escape from the Darkness._

_I am well, and have not been ill. Childermass provides me with a companion in magic, so I am not without someone to talk to. We have made some very interesting discoveries about the King's letters, which Childermass will send in his own letter to John Segundus. It will accompany this one. We have also made some progress in exploring Faerie, which I will explain now._

(This portion of the letter ran to three pages and went into the minutest detail about their researches. Childermass skimmed over it.)

_As you can see, we have been very busy. I hope that you have remained the same, and I hope that I may still count myself_

_your friend,_

_Gilbert Norrell_

"Very suitable," said Childermass, putting it down.

"You do not think I have been incomplete regarding the research?" said Mr Norrell anxiously.

Childermass hid half a smile. It was just like him to write a love letter in the form of three pages of magical detail. "You have done well, sir."

"Good," said Mr Norrell. "If you have written your letter to Mr Segundus, we may send them and get on with things."

Childermass had, so they lit a candle and burned a raven-feather and sent the letters back through the mirror, into Jonathan Strange's pocket. It was a simple process, since the channel had already been established.

"There," said Mr Norrell with satisfaction. "Now we can carry on with our own research."

 _We_ , thought Childermass. "Provided I am still an adequate replacement," he said.

"What?" said Mr Norrell, half-turning where he had strode to the bookcase.

"Nothing, sir."

"You know I hate it when you do that."

Childermass shook his head. "I know that I am a substitute at best--"

"What?" said Mr Norrell again. "Substitute?"

"For Strange. I am perfectly aware that you do not see me as a magician."

Mr Norrell turned all the way around, frowning. "It is most impolite of you to dictate my feelings for me. Why do you think that? What have I said to imply that? You are imagining things."

Childermass raised an eyebrow. "You have looked the other way for years when I learned spells."

Mr Norrell paused. "That was different," he said. "We were not in the proper place. But I cannot see that it matters. I require another magician -- I have learned that one cannot be alone."

"Ah," said Childermass, "So it is about your needs."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"If you didn't need another magician, would you be speaking to me as an equal? Would you be talking to me of magic at all if Mr Strange were here?"

"You are impossible," said Mr Norrell. "Of course I would. I do not ignore the evidence of my own eyes."

"You did for years."

"Years which are not passed. Do you not think I respect you for your own properties? You have always been--" Mr Norrell stopped.

"A very valued servant?" said Childermass, with a measure of sarcasm.

Mr Norrell was silent for a moment. "A very valued advisor," he said. "And companion. You were the only one I could rely on, always, to help me in whatever I needed."

Childermass sat down on a chair, feeling suddenly weary. "Yet you sent me away."

"I know. That was a foolish mistake." Mr Norrell frowned. "I thought... I thought it would matter less, to you. It was a choice between you and Mr Lascelles, and I thought, perhaps, when things had calmed down, I could bring you back. I did not expect to disappear. And you were only a servant--" Childermass flinched, but Mr Norrell continued quickly, "In the sense that you worked for me because I paid you and not because of friendship. I thought between the two of you, you would be more likely to return. I could raise your salary, or give you some other incentive."

"And you thought," said Childermass, "That the money was what kept me by you?"

"I could not see anything else, except magic," said Mr Norrell. "And as for magic, it seemed everywhere. If it was magic you wanted, you could just as well get it from Mr Strange as from me. I was afraid you would. You offered to join him, did you not?"

"As for that, I don't regret it. There must be balance. Had you won, he would _need_ me -- for you would have been too powerful, and England cannot have only one kind of magic. But it would not have been easy, and it would not have been what selfish impulse wanted." Childermass looked away. "I would have been your friend, sir, if you wanted me."

"Could we be friends now?" sad Mr Norrell. His voice was soft, and had the burred, blurry quality of someone trying very hard to control their feelings and not entirely succeeding. "I know that it is too late for anything else, but--"

"I would like that, if you're willing," said Childermass.

 

They seemed, after that, to approach a plateau. Childermass could feel something hanging in the air between them, but he did not feel the need to speculate on it, and it did not come between them. They returned, at last, almost to where they had been before any of this had happened: comfortable in the quietness of each other's company. They discussed the King's Letters and the King's Roads and the failings of Pale and the state of England since Mr Norrell's departure.

But it was better, thought Childermass, than it had been, because now he was permitted to read all the books and discuss their contents with Mr Norrell. Of course, he had done it anyway -- being a pickpocket had taught him a great many lessons -- but it was a thoroughly different experience as an equal.

As a friend.

If the Darkness was ever broken, he would not count his choice wasted.

 

"Oh!" said Mr Norrell when he walked into the library.

Childermass looked up and raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Your coat is off," said Mr Norrell.

Childermass, interpreting this as censure, said "There is no one but you to see me."

"Yes," said Mr Norrell, "That is not what I meant."

"Well? Does it offend you?"

"You are misinterpreting me deliberately," said Mr Norrell crossly. "I never saw you in shirtsleeves much before."

"I did attempt to maintain some degree of professionalism, no matter what you thought of my methods and appearance," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell seemed to give up on getting his point, whatever it was, across. He sat in his favourite chair and read, although he kept peering up at Childermass with what Childermass assumed must be irritation. His face was red, and every so often he would half-begin a sentence and then end it before it got off his tongue.

Finally, after nearly half an hour of this, Childermass said "If you are angry with me, you may as well admit it."

"I am surprized at you, Childermass," said Mr Norrell. "Never before have you been so utterly incapable of taking a point."

"If you would offer one, perhaps I would take it."

Mr Norrell gave a sigh of great exasperation. "If you will force me to say it, on your own head be it."

"I take full responsibility if you'll only speak."

Mr Norrell put his book down. "If you must know, Childermass, I find it quite difficult to maintain propriety with you half-dressed. What am I to do? I admitted to you that I had harboured...inappropriate thoughts, and you insist on wondering why I am flustered when you go about coatless. If you would leave me in peace instead of pestering me I am sure I would grow used to it."

Childermass stared at him. "What?"

"I know you said it was too late and I am sure you meant it to discourage me," said Mr Norrell, frowning, "But you must not expect the same self-control from me that you do from yourself. I am doing my best. Have I not been perfectly professional all these years, no matter the provocation? Have I not taken care to avoid discomfiting you in these matters? I thought my attentions would be unwelcome and now I know they will be, but you must give me time. I am--I have--that is to say, it is not yet more than a month or two since I lost Mr Strange. You must forgive me any little slips. I must have time."

"Mr Norrell," said Childermass, for once entirely out of his depths. He rose from his chair and moved towards Mr Norrell. The conversation seemed to have turned to some new angle in some very tangled thicket while he had not been watching. "Mr Norrell, who ever said your attentions would be unwelcome? I told you of my feelings for you."

"And then implied you were over and done with them long ago."

"When did I do that?"

"It is a pity," quoted Mr Norrell sarcastically, his voice growing even more Northern as he imitated Childermass, "that it is too late."

"Because you were in love with Strange! I never said that my feelings were diminished in any way! Besides, you agreed with me."

"Of course I did. What was I to do? You closed the matter, and I could not reopen it. It would not be seemly. I am not insensitive to my position--I never have been, no matter how much you have always been to yours."

"We are not," said Childermass for the second time, "master and servant any longer."

Mr Norrell took a deep breath and stood up. "Well, then!" he said, with quite as much pique as Childermass had ever seen him employ, "I do wish you'd _do_ something about it, Childermass!"

"You are the most impossible man I have ever met," said Childermass, and kissed him.

Mr Norrell made a soft surprized noise, as if this was not quite the action he had expected Childermass to take. Nevertheless, he seemed to adjust to it quickly. He went on his toes and grabbed Childermass by his waistcoat to pull him closer.

Childermass obliged, and settles his hands on Mr Norrell's waist. It was warm for a man who never seemed to be warm enough, and soft for a man who frequently imitated a hedgehog. It was, in short, precisely how he had imagined.

Mr Norrell had every hallmark of never having explored the act of kissing in detail before, but Childermass did not mind--he had not anticipated anything different. He let himself kiss him unrushed, slow, soft, until Mr Norrell began to match his pace. He found himself tracing circles into the dips of Mr Norrell's waist in time with the rhythm of their kissing.

He opened his mouth a little, flicked his tongue against Mr Norrell's lip, tugged a little with his teeth. Mr Norrell gave a soft high sound of want and presses close to him, and it ran to Childermass's blood like hypocras, as warming and sweet and as heady.

"I did not know --" said Mr Norrell.

"Hm?" said Childermass.

"I did not know there was so much to it," Mr Norrell explained.

Childermass gathered him closer and kissed him again. Mr Norrell was getting the trick of it; he bit Childermass's lip quite viciously, and Childermass moaned, swaying against him. _Turning the tables there_ , he thought, and bit right back.

They settled into a slow rhythm: soft, languid, as if they had all the time in the world. They did, but Childermass had half-expected desperation this first time. Instead, to his shock, there was a tenderness, a sort of familiarity. It made no sense under the circumstances, but then, they had always known each other better than either would admit.

Childermass extricated himself a little bit for the purpose of acquiring air. Mr Norrell made a protesting noise and blinked, then took a deep breath of his own, apparently having been so thoroughly lost in his new occupation that he not noticed his shortness of breath.

"There is one thing I must know," said Childermass.

"Yes?" said Mr Norrell, his eyes still slightly distant.

"Do you really," said Childermass, "think of shirtsleeves as half-dressed?"

Mr Norrell spluttered and flushed. Childermass was finding this an enjoyably easy reaction to engender. "I often thought of you in shirtsleeves, before. It was a great trial to me."

"Oh, aye?" said Childermass, raising an eyebrow. "And did you think of me any other way?"

Mr Norrell gave a faint and incoherent squeak. "Childermass!"

Childermass took his face in his hands and kissed him again. Mr Norrell, perhaps sensing an opportunity, plucked insistently at his waistcoat buttons.

"Is that my answer?" said Childermass against his lips.

Mr Norrell said something inaudible but probably not complimentary and continued to pluck at the buttons.

Childermass gave in and helped. He felt--odd, open, vulnerable, as if he had lost some armor he had worn his whole life. Anywhere else, with any one else, he would have immediately made a tactical retreat to repair it. Here, he did not bother. Norrell would only pick it open again, as surely as he would the waistcoat buttons. He always did, somehow.

Mr Norrell's small hands pushed the waistcoat from his shoulders and then, as if fulfilling some predetermined plan, set to work upon his neckcloth. Childermass let him untie it, and watched as he stood back to observe his handiwork.

"Are you satisfied, sir?" he asked. It was a question meant less in jest than he had intended it to be. He was acutely aware, still, of his place as runner-up.

Mr Norrell, though, nodded and looked at Childermass for a while. His little eyes were wide, and every so often he would blink as if to remind himself that this was no illusion or trick of the light. It made Childermass feel open and exposed and terrified and elated.

Mr Norrell crept closer again. He placed his hands on Childermass's collar, and pulled it aside a little to expose more of his neck. He traced his fingers along the long triangle of bare skin that waistcoat, collar-buttons, and neckcloth had gone from, leaving it open. Childermass leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Mr Norrell hummed in an inquiring manner, which did not in the slightest help Childermass to feel more composed. His fingers traced the lines of Childermass's collarbones, and circled the dip between them. He moved with the air of a man exploring a strange new land, cataloguing every single discovery in some mental notebook for future reference. One finger trailed down Childermass's chest as far as it would go, and then back up. Childermass, a little breathless, resisted the urge to swear.

And then his lips were were his fingers had been a few moments earlier, pressed to the base of Childermass's neck--a turn which Childermass, whose eyes were still closed, did not anticipate. He hissed between his teeth. Mr Norrell seemed to take this as encouragement and bit.

"Oh, _Christ_ ," said Childermass, giving into the urge. Mr Norrell drew back.

"I wanted to know," he explained a little breathlessly, "what you would do--what you would sound like--"

"You'll have no objection from me," said Childermass.

Mr Norrell, taking this as given, applied his teeth again. With a ragged groan, Childermass pulled him down onto the sopha and onto his lap. Mr Norrell, apparently perfectly content to remain here, continued to work his teeth and tongue along Childermass's collarbones, his chest, and his throat. He did it with far more equanimity than Childermass, who was beginning to gasp and grip the back of his coat, thought was at all reasonable.

Childermass had to focus on the weight of wool in his hands, on the sopha beneath him, to keep himself coherent and grounded. To regain the balance, he tugged and pushed at the coat until it slid off Mr Norrell and onto the floor.

"Better," he mumbled.

Mr Norrell made a contemplative sound, and bit him just below the dip of his collarbone. Childermass moaned, and tucked his hands under Mr Norrell's waistcoat, exploring the thin fabric beneath, so close to the skin.

"You could," Mr Norrell said, panting a little, "take it off--"

So Childermass sat up, and pushed Mr Norrell onto his back, and took his time. He untied the neckcloth first, tugging it off and working the shirt collar open. The bare triangle of skin beneath could not be fully ignored. Childermass ran his fingers across it, feeling its softness, its vulnerability.

Then went about undoing each button. It was a slow process, made slower by Mr Norrell's impatient wriggling and complaints. Splayed out on his back, Mr Norrell kept tossing his head and demanding that Childermass _do_ something.

"And what should I do?" said Childermass, slowly circling one button with a finger.

Mr Norrell gnashed his teeth. "You know perfectly well."

Childermass raised his eyebrows with perfect innocence. "Do I, sir?"

Mr Norrell sighed. "Is this some sort of punishment for my failure to act earlier?" he asked, not sounding as if he really minded.

"This is for my enjoyment and yours," said Childermass. He carried on undoing the buttons, noting, smugly, that Mr Norrell's breathing had picked up a little more. When the waistcoat was off, he ran his hands gently along Mr Norrell's chest, which felt, suddenly, very bare, with only a muslin shirt between his hands and the skin beneath. Or -- more likely -- the shirt and at least two undershirts. He felt a sudden surge of affection.

"I cannot be expected to maintain my composure with you looking at me like that," said Mr Norrell.

"I do not want you to maintain your composure," said Childermass, and lowered his head to Mr Norrell's skin.

Mr Norrell made a soft, soft noise as Childermass kissed the faint little dent between his collarbones. He licked up a little into the hollow of his throat, and kissed in a circle around the base of his neck. There was a strange desire in him to draw this out, as if it would be the only time he would have this privilege. As if at any moment, Strange would cast the spell that would drag him back to Starecross.

But moment by moment, as he tugged the skin of Mr Norrell's neck with his teeth, as he trailed bites and kisses along his jaw, no spell came. No spell came as Mr Norrell's small hands came up, clutching his hair, holding him in place, and as Childermass laughed softly and ran his own hands along Mr Norrell's ribcage. No spell came as he pushed the shirt further open and kissed as much of Mr Norrell's chest as he could reach, hindered only by vests.

No spell came as Mr Norrell pulled him desperately up, and kissed him again.

They lingered like that, kissing softly and finally with a hint of the desperation Childermass had expected earlier, until both their breathing slowed. Mr Norrell's arms were round Childermass, and Childermass was half on top and half to the side of him. His eyes were closed, and for a moment Childermass understood why poets talked the way they did, about their beloved's hair or skin or eyes.

It was not, he realized suddenly, that the beloved had to have any particular beauty. It was a function of seeing something _else_. A sense of how small and fragile each person is, and how very incredible this makes their whole existence. A sense, perhaps, of the soul within.

He shook himself. He was being sentimental, a vice he had long thought himself cured of, and which he rarely indulged in even when that had been proven wrong.

"Quite extraordinary," said Mr Norrell, opening his eyes. Childermass had half thought him asleep.

"Mm?" said Childermass.

Mr Norrell sighed again, sounding far more content than the last time. "I feel I have quite understood the whole business now," he said.

Childermass kissed his forehead. "We shall see about that."

Mr Norrell made a soft humming sort of noise. "If there is more, I would like to rest before learning about it."

"Would you grant me a request, sir?" asked Childermass.

"Anything," said Mr Norrell, most uncharacteristically, and then rather more like himself he added, "within reason."

"Will you give me my Christian name?"

Mr Norrell blinked. "Of course," he said. "John. It is a very little request." But he sounded as though he understood the power of it.

"Nevertheless," said Childermass, with a sigh. He was being sentimental again, but he could not bring himself to care. "It is something that I never thought to hear from your lips."

Mr Norrell reached out and touched Childermass's own lips with fascination, as though he could not quite believe they were real. "You know mine, of course."

"Yes. Gilbert."

"I never have been over fond of it," said Mr Norrell, "but I dare say I could grow used to it."

"Mm," said Childermass, giving Mr Norrell another kiss.

"Is that all you want from me?" asked Mr Norrell. He sounded, to Childermass's great amusement, a little disappointed.

"Time for the rest later," Childermass said, and so there was.


End file.
